Mademoiselle de Verneuil, to whose imagination the word “chateau” brought none but its conventional ideas, was affected by the funereal aspect of the scene. She sprang from the carriage and stood apart gazing at in terror, and debating within herself what action she ought to take. Francine heard Madame du Gua give a sigh of relief as she felt herself in safety beyond reach of the Blues; an exclamation escaped her when the gates were closed, and she saw the carriage and its occupants within the walls of this natural fortress. The Marquis de Montauran turned hastily to Mademoiselle de Verneuil, divining the thoughts that crowded in her mind. “This chateau,” he said, rather sadly, “was ruined by the war, just as my plans for our happiness have been ruined by you.” “How ruined?” she asked in surprise. “Are you indeed ‘beautiful, brilliant, and of noble birth’?” he asked ironically, repeating the words she had herself used in their former conversation. “Who has told you to the contrary?” “Friends, in whom I put faith; who care for my safety and are on the watch against treachery.” “Treachery!” she exclaimed, in a sarcastic tone. “Have you forgotten Hulot and Alencon already? You have no memory,--a dangerous defect in the leader of a party. But if friends,” she added, with increased sarcasm, “are so all-powerful in your heart, keep your friends. Nothing is comparable to the joys of friendship. Adieu; neither I nor the soldiers of the Republic will stop here.” She turned towards the gateway with a look of wounded pride and scorn, and her motions as she did so displayed a dignity and also a despair which changed in an instant the thoughts of the young man; he felt that the cost of relinquishing his desires was too great, and he gave himself up deliberately to imprudence and credulity. He loved; and the lovers had no desire now to quarrel with each other. “Say but one word and I will believe you,” he said, in a supplicating voice. “One word?” she answered, closing her lips tightly, “not a single word; not even a gesture.” “At least, be angry with me,” he entreated, trying to take the hand she withheld from him,--“that is, if you dare to be angry with the leader of the rebels, who is now as sad and distrustful as he was lately happy and confiding.” Marie gave him a look that was far from angry, and he added: “You have my secret, but I have not yours.” The alabaster brow appeared to darken at these words; she cast a look of annoyance on the young chieftain, and answered, hastily: “Tell you my secret? Never!” In love every word, every glance has the eloquence of the moment; but on this occasion Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s exclamation revealed nothing, and, clever as Montauran might be, its secret was impenetrable to him, though the tones of her voice betrayed some extraordinary and unusual emotion which piqued his curiosity. “You have a singular way of dispelling suspicion,” he said.